Topophilia
by farfetched4
Summary: He loved England. He loved the place wholly.  Human AU: de-anon from the kink meme, for the prompt 'Nations are actually a group therapy for people disappointed with their lives'. Rated for fairly non-graphic suicide attempt.


It took ten hours of his ten year old life to change it immeasurably.

He loved England. He loved the language, the slang, the accents. He loved the hills, the coast, the cities. He loved the weather, the way that nothing was certain. He loved England wholly. Had there been such a thing as a personification of England, Arthur wouldn't have thought twice about laying his life down for that individual, such was his unending devotion for that country.

So why did he find himself on an aeroplane to America with a one way ticket?

Nobody understood the depths to which he was patriotic. He would whole-heartedly support the sports teams, the politicians, the everyday English people. Even his twin sister rolled her eyes if he mentioned anything to do with England.

But he had never lied when he stated that England was his home and his spiritual resting place.  
It even went so far for him as to think privately, that if he wasn't in England, he would rather be dead.  
It was a grim thought when he was seven, and quickly filed as a slightly uncomfortable truth when he was living in Greater London and could still get the Tube free.

However, after the ten hour journey in his tenth year alive, it became somewhat of a reality.

The ocean stretched under him when he had his first thought of dying, when he saw a shooting star and prayed that the plane would never make it. That it would plummet into the sea, taking his life and so his soul could fly back to his beloved birthplace and remain there for eternity.

Instead, he found himself in an airport in Manhattan, hating the world (apart from the English) and crying his eyes and lungs out.  
His first memory of America was a bad one and they only became worse.  
Being forced to learn the national anthem and sing it instead of his beloved _God Save the Queen_.  
Being shunned by the fourteen year olds when he said he supported England in the World Cup, and he hated the sport _they_ called football.  
His father slapping him when he snuck onto the Internet to buy some of his favourite English tea to ease his sorrows.  
His mother scolding him for using the English spellings at school and getting lower grades for accuracy. (Of course it was sulphur with a ph, not an f)

Every incident became a mark on his body.

It culminated at 17, when all the other boys (men, his traitorous mind whispered, ones who hadn't been forced to grow up with so much love it both held him back and advanced him beyond normalcy) were talking about 'football' and getting girlfriends, and his mind was occupied with two things: death and England.

The action itself was caused by a quiet, forgettable comment that completely shook the foundations of his world.

"_You're getting an American accent, finally!_"

All he could see were two options: go home or die.  
The minimum age at which to buy aeroplane tickets was 18.  
He would die for England, and made the noose from his flag adorned with the English red cross, so they would know why he'd done it.

He couldn't stand America.

The ceiling collapsed and his sister found him pulling the flag tight around his neck and turning blue.

Two weeks later announced the arrival of the meeting he'd been suggested to go to.  
It hadn't been a surprise when he choose to be England. (Well, more accurately the United Kingdom, but he decided his love could stretch west and north too)

Each month he could insult America and France without being frowned at or told off. He could drink tea without reprise, be English without fear of teasing.

It wasn't perfect; America would never become a home away from home; but it would do, and the meetings became a lifeline.

A year later and he continued to live, if still pining for England.

At eighteen, the second life changing event occurred.  
The thirteenth meeting after his first, the day following his birthday, and he dropped the act for a few moments at the start of the meeting.

"I'm going home!" His legs collapsed under him as he cried in relief and joy, the nations surrounding him with congratulations. Never before had he felt such esctasy at a single plane journey, or ever in the past eight years.

Finally, he could start his life again, in the right place.

* * *

The extremes of homesickness. Topophilia means the love of a place.  
I don't hate America, although I am English, so...

From the kink meme, for the prompt 'nations are a group therapy for those disappointed with their lives', here: .?thread=55880214#t55880214


End file.
